I am not a climber, a scientist, a mapmaker, or a former museum director. I have no first ascents to my name, nor have I led expeditions or tested gear for the military or been inducted into the Explorers Club. Bradford Washburn did all that, and more, with distinction. But for the purposes of this story, I couldn't care less. What I care about is his photography—and how it is that Washburn, now 95, has created some of the world's most spectacular images of mountains yet remains virtually unknown in the world of photography.

Mine is a limited view to be sure, but—as a photographer myself—I take comfort in thinking I know quite a bit about pictures, who makes them, and the history of the medium. On the walls of my Montana studio are portraits of photographers, yearly added to through the generosity of my friend and colleague Bruce Weber, who surprises me at Christmastime with rare finds. When I opened Bruce's gift four years ago, there was

Washburn Gallery

For a an exclusive gallery of Bradford Washburn's work, click here.

a book, Bradford Washburn: Mountain Photography, and a framed 1936 picture of Washburn, 26 at the time, wearing a head-to-toe sheepskin flight suit and holding a massive eight-by-ten camera. The images were stunning. Why had I never seen any of his work?

Bruce had provided the bait, and I was hooked. When I learned that Washburn was very much alive and active in the Boston suburb of Lexington—he drove his own car until this spring and still gives occasional talks—the snarly cub reporter who lives in a dark place inside me vowed to drag him into the photographic light of day by stripping away all the other hats he's worn. I'd go to Lexington and make him confess to being something no self-respecting photographer should ever call himself: an artist. Even if I had to claw it out of his nonagenarian body.